It's a Wonderful Life, Finn Hudson
by Mergatroid Skittles
Summary: That's right, IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE recast with our boy Finn. Takes place post-"A Very Glee Christmas". Finchel.
1. FATHER FRANGELICO

A/N: I hate Christmas but I do like Frank Capra's IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE. ("Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Chirstmas, Emporium!") I bet you can see where this is story is headed, right?. Come along, won't you?

* * *

He finds a bottle of Frangelico in the cupboard above the fridge. It's dusty. Mom probably forgot she bought it. He's not sure what Frangelico is exactly, but the bottle looks cool, and he needs a damn drink, so he opens that sucker up. Doesn't even bother with a glass.

Whoa.

It kinda tastes like heaven and those fancy Rocher chocolates in the gold wrappers.

Whoa.

_Why did no one tell him this before this is the best thing EVER! _"Merry Christmas to me," he says to the empty kitchen.

It's Christmas night and he's alone. No more Rachel. They were supposed to spend Christmas together, that was the plan. But then everything went to shit. It's over now, fucked, his heart ripped out and his arms empty. It burns his guts every time he thinks about her. He loves her so much even though he kind of hates her, too. He can't forgive her, and he can't let her voice and her lips pull him in again. No. Maybe he screwed things up too, but what she did... Ah, fuck, he is _not_ going to cry again about this!

Father Frangelico, take me away.

He seems to have zero friends left, despite his belief that he's popular – no one's called him to hang out in weeks, not even Santana. Not that he wants to spend Christmas with _Santana_. She'd want to go to Burger King or something tacky like that. Gross.

All the presents are done. He didn't get anything he wanted. (Cuz what he really wants he can't have anymore.) Christmas dinner was nice and stuff, he just wasn't that hungry, which is a sign he's seriously fucked up, he knows. And now it's dark and quiet and Mom is at Burt and Kurt's, presumably to have sex with her new husband (vom). He refused to go over with her to sleep in the basement with Kurt. He'll move into the new house, when they find one, but for now he wants his cowboy wallpaper and his narrow bed and most of all he just wants to be alone. With his new best friend Father Frangelico.

Two hours later, most of Father Frangelico is gone and he's suddenly screaming at the staircase banister because the little wooden knobby thing came off in his hand AGAIN, for the five-thousandth time, and he can't understand why mom never just fixed it! "Why does nothing fucking _work_! I hate this place!" he screams at the knobby thing. It has no answers for him, however. He smashes the knobby thing back into place and suddenly he's grabbing his puffy vest and his keys and barging out the door into the freezing cold night, escaping the suffocating, tiny house.

* * *

"Dude, did you _drive_ here?" Puck asks. "What the hell is wrong with you!"

He ignores the incredulous look on Puck's face, ignores the question, and shouts loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, "Why did you make out with her? Why did you have to make out with Rachel? She's _mine_! She was mine!" And suddenly his fist is barreling into Puck's face and maybe he didn't mean to do that, maybe he's not really mad at _Puck_ for all this shit, but Father Frangelico is in control of his body right now and Father Frangelico is _pissed_, so it's not really his fault. No, certainly not.

Puck tries to push him away, push him off the porch, but Finn grabs hold of him and is about to fling this punk into the snowy bushes, but Puck gets a fist free and _clocks_ him. Shit! It rattles his teeth and rattles his brain and sends him stumbling back. He lands on his ass in the snow, stunned. He touches his mouth – he's _bleeding_. Puck makes out with his girlfriend and now makes him bleed? Not fucking fair. Why does the universe hate him so much? He's going to kick Puck's ass now, but _good_. But before he can get up, Puck's mom is coming out to see what the fracas is. "Finn's drunk, mom," Puck explains.

"Well get him inside before he freezes and dies, Noah!" she orders shrilly. And Puck reaches down, arm stretched out. But he's not taking charity from this jerk, no way. He slaps Puck's hand away and stumbles to his feet, running for his car, running away from Puck's shouts to stop. He doesn't stop.

He doesn't stop until the tree stops him. Stops the car dead in its tracks, the front end crumpled in, the airbag exploding in his face, his knee jamming against the steering column. Shit. Shit! He just totaled the fucking car. Where the hell did that tree come from? His head feels like a busted brick wall now and he knows he's two seconds from barfing. He manages to throw himself out the door and onto the snow before all the Frangelico, half-digested mashed potatoes and ham, and some pumpkin pie come spewing out of his mouth, staining the snow brownish-yellow.

Ugh. _Disgusting. _He's disgusting.

He collapses on his back beside the mess and curses Father Frangelico. They're _so _not best friends anymore. And he doesn't want to eat those gold-wrapped chocolates ever again. He just wants to fucking die. His mom is going to kill him anyway. He's alone and he misses Rachel like the beach would miss the ocean. He's crying again, dammit. "I wish I'd never been born," he chokes out to the dark, cloudless sky above. He can see a lot of stars littering the view and slowly realizes he must be well out of town to see so very many. Where the hell is he? He'd raise his head to look, but... He's just so tired and sick now. He closes his eyes. He just needs to rest a moment. Then he'll figure out what to do about..._everything_. Yeah, just a little nap first...

* * *

TBC.


	2. CLARENCE

"Kid, wake up!"

Mom is yelling a him. He just wants to stay buried under his quilt, it's cozy. And a little wet. Shit, did he wet the bed? Or is it...the _other_ kind of wet. Oh god. "Go away, mom, m'sleeping," he mumbles, pushing away the hand that's trying to pull him out of bed.

"Wake up, you damn fool!" mom shouts. Her voice sounds funny - real low. He mumbles something about her possibly having a cold and then she smacks him in the face. His eyes snap open and he's sitting up now, eye to eye with someone decidedly not his mother. No, not unless mom became an angry black man overnight. And no, he's not in bed, he quickly sees. He's outside, sitting in a snowbank. And he's fucking freezing. And this angry black man is still glaring at him. He blinks, at a loss for words and thought.

Angry black man hauls him up and gives him a shake. "What the hell are you doing sleeping outside in the middle of winter, boy?"

Like a freight train from hell, last night comes barreling back at him. "Oh god..." he groans, his head suddenly pounding. He's glad angry black man is holding him up, otherwise he think he might pass out again. "I...I was in a car accident."

"Then where's your car?"

He looks around. The snowy rural road they're standing by is quiet, empty but for a small white jeep idling ten feet away. His car - where the hell did it go? He sees the tree he ran into, it's right there, but where's the car? "I dunno. Maybe they towed it?"

"Then why didn't they tow you away, too?"

"I don't know, man, okay? I don't know what happened!" He pushes the guy's hands off him, frustrated. Angry. Confused. He feels like that freight train from hell ran over him, backed up, and ran over him again about five times.

"Well I'm surprised you ain't dead. Shit." The angry black man grabs his arm again, starts to pull him toward the small jeep down the way. He resists, but the angry black man keeps pulling. "Come on, get in the truck. I'll take you back to Lima, Finn."

That stops his feet firmly. "How do you know my name?"

The angry black man's eyes flash. _Really_ angry black man now. "Boy, you're telling me you don't remember me? Well that's just... That's a fine how do you do!" Really angry black man scoffs, letting go of his arm with a small shove. "You run me down with your mother's car not even two years ago, put me in traction for six months, nearly end my goddamn career, and you don't even remember who I am? Motherfuh- I should leave you here to freeze, you ungrateful brat!"

Oh.

My.

God.

The little white jeep.

A uniform - dude's wearing a uniform. He didn't take it in until just now.

Mailman.

_The_ mailman!

The mailman he saw in his head every time Rachel's leg rubbed over his crotch, every time she licked that spot on his neck with her hot little tongue, every time he touched her boob. "Mr. Henry?" he yelps, shocked.

"I should smack you again," Mr. Henry mutters, shaking his head. "Get in the damn truck."

* * *

He can't stop sneaking glances at Mr. Henry as they putter along back toward Lima in the tiny little mail truck, Finn perched on a bucket of mail since there's only one seat. The heater's on full blast and he's holding his hands right up to the vent, trying to warm up. "Thank you for rescuing me, Mr. Henry," he says meekly.

The mailman grunts, shifts the gear lever. "Don't call me Mr. Henry, that was my father. Call me Clarence."

"Well, thanks again, Clarence. And sorry for running you over. Before. You seem much better."

"Ehn. Had some trouble with my prostate awhile back."

"Oh. Did I do that?"

"No. So you were drunk, eh? What were you doing driving around town drunk, running into trees and such?"

He sighs heavily, trying to decide how much to tell Mr. Henry, aka Clarence, aka The Mailman. But it only takes a moment before the whole sordid tale comes spilling out - everything about Rachel, Santana, Puck, hell even Jesse St. James and Quinn. How angry and hurt he is. How he can't forgive Rachel. All of it. He's not sure Clarence is listening after a while, but it's a relief to get it all out. And in the clear light of morning, away from sickly sweet liquor and the self-pity of a lonely Christmas night, he thinks he starts to see clearly for the first time in weeks. "I'm done with her, for good," he concludes finally. "I'm moving on. She's just so...crazy! I can't deal with it. I mean, look what happened last night cuz she's got me so twisted up! It's a wake up call. I don't need her anymore." He nods once, with finality. And then glances again at Clarence to gauge the older man's reaction.

"Damn straight, son," Clarence says.

That catches him off guard a little. He expected something else. But isn't sure what.

"You're a young, healthy seventeen year old man, a wild buck! You don't need to be worrying about _relationships_ and _commitment_ and all that stuff, not right now. You need to be out there on the open range, chasing every pretty little doe that catches your eye, not settling down with _one_. Not at your age. You should be out sowing your wild oats!"

"Yeah but... Doesn't 'sowing my wild oats' mean, like, getting girls pregnant?" he asks uncertainly.

"It just means having fun. Life's too short, Finn. Forgetting about this Rachel girl is the best thing you can do."

"Yeah," he says quietly.

"No no no. You gotta yell it loud and proud!"

Um. Well. Okay. "Yeah!" he shouts a little louder.

"Yeah what?"

"Yeah! I'm over her! Rachel Barbra Berry, I'm over you!" His voice fills the little van and Clarence is smiling, pumping his fist. Indeed, that was a little liberating, he has to admit. Yeah, he's a wild buck! He's seventeen! He's free, dammit.

"There ya go, son!" Clarence laughs. "Now then. You still live at eleven-zero-seven Bedford Avenue?"

* * *

He realizes at the front door of his house that he doesn't have his keys anymore. They must still be in the car, taken away when it got towed to wherever. He looks for the little rock under which they keep a spare key but in the snow covering the porch, he can't find it. It should be _right there_. But it's not. Dammit.

He turns around and heads back toward Clarence and the mail truck, waiting at the curb. He shrugs. "I'm locked out. My mom's still at Burt's. My step-dad's."

"Burt who?"

"Hummel."

"Nineteen-fifty Gower Street. Let's go."

Climbing back into the truck and perching on the mail bucket, he asks, "Do you know every address in town?"

Clarence gets the truck in gear and they lurch forward, the wheels skidding a little on the snow. "Every address in this sector of the county. Been a mail carrier for twenty-five years. Best job there is. Except when punk kids run you over. Hey, wait a second. Why were you out driving if you ain't got no license?"

"I have a license."

The truck jerks, the brakes squeaking a little, and Clarence stares at him, horrified. "They gave _you_ a license?"

"Um. Yeah?"

"Unbelievable! You nearly killed me! Goddamn DMV. Goddamn government workers, good for nothing buncha useless sons of whores," he mutters.

"Aren't you a government worker?"

"Shut up."

And so the ride to Burt's is silent thereafter. It worries Finn when they arrive and he doesn't see Burt's truck or Kurt's SUV in the driveway. He's gonna be locked out again if they're not home. "You want me to wait again?" Clarence asks. "I really gotta get back to work, get the mail out. I can't really be hauling your ass all over the place all day."

"Yeah, no, I know." He eyes Burt's house, still worried. "No, you don't have to wait. I'll be okay. If they're not here, I can just wait at my friend Artie's house. He lives on the next block."

"Alright then." Clarence sticks out a hand. Finn takes it, shakes it. "Good luck, young man. And don't forget what I said."

"About sowing my wild oats?"

"About life. It's too short."

"Oh. Yeah. Thanks." Weird so-called advice, but whatever. He climbs out of the truck and watches as Clarence putters off in the truck, throwing him a wave out the window. He's a little sad to see him go, oddly. Clarence felt like the only real friend he had at the moment, in a weird way. But now he has to find his mom and tell her what happened. She is gonna be _pissed_.

He knocks on Burt's front door, ringing the bell a few times for good measure. It's still sorta early, maybe they're asleep. _Don't think about mom and Burt in bed together, don't think about mom and Burt in bed together- _ Aw, shit. Gross. But finally he hears someone opening the locks from inside and the door opens to reveal Kurt standing there in his nightgown.

Wait.

"Can I help you?" Not Kurt, he quickly realizes. It's a lady with short dark hair cut kinda boyish. She eyes him, wary, holding closed the neck of her heavy gown.

"Um." He steps back, looks at the address tacked to the eaves of the house. Nineteen-fifty, that's the right number. "Um. I'm looking for Burt Hummel? Or Kurt? Or Carol Hudson-Hummel?"

The lady closes the door a little bit, probably in case he tries to push his way in. "No one by that name lives here."

"But... This is Nineteen-fifty _Gower_, right?"

"Yes..." Well huh. He's not sure what to think now. But then the lady's eyes light up a little. "Oh! Of course, I'm so sorry. The Hummels were the previous owners! But they moved out months ago. I never met them, I only met the real estate agent. They did leave rather a lot of stuff behind, I still have some it in the garage waiting to give to Goodwill. Were you looking for that perhaps? It was a lot of furniture mostly and some old clothes..."

But his head is spinning and he stops listening. Moved out months ago? _What_? "That...doesn't make any sense. They live here, Burt and Kurt. They were here just yesterday!"

"No. They weren't." The lady is getting wary again but he doesn't care if he's freaking her out. _He's_ freaked out! He puts a hand on the door, pushing it open, barging in, pushing right past her. She yelps and stumbles back, shouting at him to get out. But he's shouting, too, shouting for Burt and Kurt and his mom. Where is his mom? "Get out or I'll call the police!" the lady screams.

He's running around the rooms, looking for his family, slowly realizing that none of the furniture in here is right, the walls are painted different, _everything is different_! What the fuck is going on...

The lady is still screaming, chasing him around, brandishing a ceramic dog statue and waving it at him, threatening. When he comes to a stop in the middle of the living room, utterly at a loss, she finally hits him with it, whacking him in the back. He hardly feels it.

He hardly knows what to feel right now. What to think.

So he runs.

* * *

TBC.


	3. COFFEE

He runs as fast as he can away from Burt's house. Not Burt's house. Maybe not Burt's house. He doesn't know! He has to get away in case that lady calls the cops. Maybe he _should_ go to the cops though, ask them to find his goddamn family because they've clearly been stolen, kidnapped or something. That's what it must be - a sinister plot to drive him mad. Like a movie. Or something.

He stops when he gets far enough away, almost to Artie's house, and finally pulls his cell phone from his pocket. Duh, he'll just call them and find out what the fuck is going on!

But when he powers on the phone and gets to his address book, he finds it's empty. Not one name or number. Not even his own. Shit, the memory musta gotten wiped somehow. Maybe his own memory got wiped too! Maybe aliens abducted him and did their little tests on him (probes! eeek!) and wiped his memory and now he's misremembering where Burt and Kurt live. Maybe Nineteen-fifty was their old address and they really did find a new house and he just doesn't remember them moving to it in the past few months. Or something.

Or something or something or something.

He stands there under a tree in someone's yard trying to clear his head enough to think. He does still remember a few numbers. Ones he committed to heart. His mom's. Kurt's, he does remember that one. Puck. Quinn. Rachel. His thumb hovers over the numbers, ready to dial. His first instinct is actually to dial Rachel, not his mom, because he's totally freaking out about aliens and his family and stuff and she's always so smart about stuff. Usually. Unless she's letting her insecurities and fear make her stupid. Nonetheless, she might have the answers for him.

But he stops himself. He can't call her. He doesn't need her anymore, right? It's over and he's done with her, right? Right.

So he quickly dials his mother's number. He dances in place a bit, trying to keep warm, nervous. The voicemail picks up. "Hello, this is Carol. Sorry I missed your call. Leave me a message and I'll call you right back," his mom says into his ear.

"Mom! Mom, where are you? I went to Burt and Kurt's and you guys aren't there! Maybe I went to the wrong house, I don't know! I'm really confused. I think I hit my head or got abducted by aliens. I dunno. Whatever. Call me! Call me call me call me as soon as you get this!"

He dials her three more times in a row. Keeps getting the voicemail. He texts her, his freezing fingers having trouble on the keypad. He needs to get out of the cold. He should go to Artie's. And he's almost there when he realizes he and his family went to Florida for the holidays. Shit! Shit. He could go to someone else's house but running around all over town seems, like, totally inefficient. And Clarence is gone. He needs a plan. He'll try Kurt, and if he doesn't pick up, he'll go to the coffee house on Main Street and regroup. Okay. Good.

Kurt answers after the fourth ring and relief pools in his stomach like warm coffee. "Kurt! Thank god. Where are you?"

There's a pause on the other end. "Excuse me? Who is this?"

"It's me! Finn! Where are you guys? Did you-did you already get a new house and move? Is this some sort of surprise party thing, like when mom led me down to your basement to show me our room? Where's my mom? I'm locked out of my house. Where are you?"

"Calm. The. Fuck. Down. And tell me who this is," Kurt answers very smoothly. It only infuriates him and frustrates him further.

"It's _Finn_. F-I-N-N. Finn Hudson!"

"Finn Hudson. Where did we meet? Were you at Shakey's Pizza last night? Were you with Dean and Andy?"

He just doesn't know what to say anymore. Where did they meet? Who are Dean and Andy? He takes a deep breath. Tries to calm down. "Kurt. Stop fucking with me. It's _not _funny. I was in a car accident, okay, and I'm all messed up, so just tell me where you are _right fucking now_!"

He hears Kurt make some scoffing sound on the line. "I'm in Screw-You-Ville, asshole. I don't know who you think you're calling or why or what you want but don't call this number again!"

He screams in frustration when the call ends. Stupid selfish Kurt! Why is he doing this to him! God! God, he just wishes he knew what the hell was going on with everyone today!

* * *

He walks to Main Street, hands shoved deep into his puffy vest's pockets. He tries calling Quinn - voicemail. He doesn't rant and rave, he just asks for a call back. He tries Puck's number - no answer, no voicemail. He toys with the phone in his pocket, toying with the idea of calling Rachel. No, he can figure this out on his own, he decides. He will find someone. Maybe Mr. Schuester can help him. But he's so hungry and cold now. He needs coffee. He needs to think.

Martini's Coffee House is his favorite place for coffee in all of Lima. Their coffee is the best and in the winter they have a little fire in their old brick fireplace. He brought Rachel here a month ago, just after Thanksgiving. They snuggled by the fire in the big comfy chair. He teased her when she got cinnamon whipped cream on the end of her nose. That had been nice. It'd definitely been cuddle weather on that particular night.

He wants to sit in that chair again - maybe it will calm his frayed nerves.

Walking into Martini's, he absentmindedly gives his order to the gal behind the counter. "What size?" she asks. "Tall, grande, or venti?"

He looks up at her. "Uh. Large?"

"Large is venti."

"Since when?" The gal gives him a funny look. "Whatever. Venti. And can I get one of those big sweet rolls, too. Please."

"That'll be four-ninety."

He digs in his pants pocket and finds his wallet. Which is empty. Completely. No ID, no money, no...um, _condom_. "Shit," he spits out. "They robbed me. They stole my car and robbed me."

The gal at the counter raises an eyebrow. "Who did?"

"The aliens."

Her eyebrow gets higher. "What?"

"Lookit, I'm really sorry but I don't have any money or cards or anything, but can I just, like, pay you back later? I've been outside all night and I'm really hungry and I don't usually beg but I'm having the worst day. Please? Please?"

"Um."

"Where is Mr. Martini? He knows me, he can vouch for me. I come here all the time."

"Mr. Martini?"

Oh god, not again.

And then he sees it. The barista's apron - it's green. And it says Starbucks on it. As does her hat. He spins around, looking for the fire in the fireplace. There isn't any fire. No comfy chair. Just sterile looking metal chairs and tables. And a bunch of crazy-named coffee drinks printed on the board above the counter.

"This is a Starbucks now? Are you _kidding_ me?" The barista is still staring at him like he's insane. He thinks he must be.

"Young man, either pay for your order now or move aside," a stern voice behind him warns. He knows that voice. He whips around - he never thought he'd be so glad to see Sue Sylvester! She's glaring at him but he doesn't care, she can help him! "Miss Sylvester! Miss Sylvester, can I borrow five dollars?"

Her grin is icy, amused. "What do I look like? A charity ward?"

"Please, Miss Sylvester? I know you and the glee club have had your differences in the past, but I thought after Christmas Eve at Mr. Schuester's house, you might be a little more-"

"_Schuester_? No, I only ever spend Christmas Eve at the hospital, stealing flowers from patients and toys from the dying children."

"But we brought a tree. You sang 'Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer.'" And she got a little bit drunk on the eggnog Puck spiked. They all did. He was tipsy enough to kiss Rachel's cheek as they were leaving, and then stupid enough to tell her he shouldn't have done that.

"I don't know what kind of hallucinogenic drugs you're on and I don't care, I just want my damn grande low fat gingerbread latte and a cheese Danish." She points at the barista. "To go. Make it snappy. Get out of my way," she demands, pushing by him, making him stumble a little. He glares at her - what an evil witch she is, what a fucking fraud. He can't take it anymore!

"Miss Sylvester, what makes you such hard-skulled cow? Is it because you have no friends, no children? Is it because you hate anything you can't have - like _talent_ and _love_? You can't begin to spend all the money you've got and you won't even give me five lousy bucks? What's wrong with you?" He's making a scene, he knows, but he can't help it. It's worth it for the look of shock on Miss Sylvester's face. "I know I'm not supposed to yell at teachers, but-but I don't care! Screw you! You suck! Nobody likes you!" Her face is red and blotchy with fury, rage twisting her thin lips. She could well expel him. Fine! So be it. He spins away and sees how everyone in the shop stares at him. "Starbucks sucks, too!"

And with that he blows outta there like a bull in a china shop, shoving tables and chairs out of his way, shoving out the door and back into the cold.

* * *

He succumbs. He calls Rachel. He has to. He waits with baited breath as it rings. And rings. And rings. And rings. "Please pick up," he whispers. But no. No answer. No voicemail. He hangs up, feeling gutted. He could go to her house. But if she doesn't want to talk to him, maybe that's not the best idea. So he goes to see Mr. Schuester. He needs help. He needs sleep and food. Mr. Schue will help him.

But when, standing at the front door of his condo, a very tired-looking Mr. Schuester asks, "I'm sorry, who are you?" he starts to cry. Not just cry - _bawl_.

"Why are you doing this to me?" he gasps between sobs, sagging against the doorframe, trying to keep himself upright. "Mr. Schue, what is going _on_? It's me. Finn. From glee club, from Spanish One! Why are you all torturing me like this?"

"Oh were you in one of my classes at McKinley? I didn't recognize you, I'm sorry. I haven't been a teacher in more than a year."

He clings onto the wood molding, his knees feeling rubbery, and he has a sudden, instinctual insight, he knows not from where. "Are you- You're not an accountant, are you?" he asks weakly.

"I am."

He stares at Mr. Schuester through a watery haze, the world spinning crazily around him. "And glee club - I wasn't in it, was I?"

"Well, um. It was only Kurt Hummel, Mercedes Jones, Artie Abrams, Tina Cohen-Chang, and-and...Rachel, Rachel Berry." Something clouds over Mr. Schue's face, something dark and fleeting. "But I don't think it continued after I left. Did it?"

He's not sure. He's not sure of anything. Before he can answer, he hears screaming from inside the condo - a baby howling. "You have a baby?"

"Yeah."

There's another sort of screaming then - Mrs. Schuester. "Will! Will! The baby, Will!"

"Why can't you get her, Terri?" Mr. Schue screams back over his shoulder. "For once," he adds, muttering.

"I'm watching Real Housewives, Will! I _need_ my me time, you know that!"

He sees how Mr. Schue rolls his eyes, his mouth falling open in a dark scowl. "I'm coming, dammit," Mr. Schue growls. He finally looks back to Finn, his face softening slightly. "Son, do you want me to call your parents for you, to come pick you up?"

God, he _explained_ this already. Why is no one _listening_? But rather than explain it again, he just shakes his head. The baby inside and the wife inside are still screaming, distracting, splitting his head into pieces. He just wants to leave. "No. That's okay. I'm, uh, I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"Well, take care then. It was good to see you again."

Bullshit. He's getting the idea. Mr. Schuester has never seen him before in his life.

Before Mr. Schue can close the door in his face, Finn says, "I'm sorry things turned out this way for you, Mr. Schuester." That stops his teacher, his not-teacher, and he opens the door a little more. Finn can see pain pinching his face and making him look older. "You were a good teacher. When you weren't messing with us for your own purposes. Which you did do sometimes, I have to admit. I wish you'd stuck with your dreams."

Now Schue is the one who seems about to cry. "Yeah. Me, too."

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

The door is closing again, Mr. Schue going back to his squalling family, but again Finn has to stop him, desperation taking over. "Uh, Mr. Schuester? Can I have some money? I've lost my wallet and I just need a few dollars for a coffee or something." He feels like the sorriest wretch in the world and the pitying look on Mr. Schue's face just makes it ten times worse. But when Mr. Schue takes a twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and hands it over, he feels like he could kiss the man.

The door closes quietly, with a click, and he's alone again. And realizing just how alone he really is, it seems. He clutches the money in his fist and fights off the urge to start bawling again, wishing and praying he could just wake up from this nightmare already.

* * *

TBC.


	4. BREADSTIX

It could well be a nightmare, but everything _feels_ and _sounds_ so real. He can _smell_ things - car exhaust fumes, pine trees, chicken - and he doesn't think he's ever dreamed _smells_ before. He could just be _insane_. Very likely. It was easier to believe aliens abducted him and messed with his head - that would make some sense. As it is, he can't make heads or tails of what's happening to him. Well, he _can_, but the idea is too scary to entertain for long. He doesn't want to think that maybe he _died_ in that car crash and is in some sort of hell. That can't be true. He knows he's hurt people in the past...a lot of people...but does he really deserve _hell_?

He tries to ignore those thoughts and focus on his cup of coffee, his third, carefully stirring in a bunch of sugar. It smells so _coffee-y_. With his twenty dollars, he didn't go back to Starbucks but instead made his way to Breadstix and was glad to find it hadn't changed, even in this crazy-ass world. Good old Breadstix. With their shitty breadsticks. That smell like stale breadsticks.

He takes out his phone again. The battery is dying. He tries his mom again. He even tries Rachel again. Nothing. He puts it back in his pocket and silently begs them - or anyone - to call him and let him know he's not insane.

His waitress comes back with a piece of apple pie, his second, which is only slightly better than the breadsticks he's been munching. He wonders if he has enough money left for a sandwich or something, too. He's still starving. It's lunchtime now, more people trickling in to eat. He watches them dully, distracting himself, trying not to think about his predicament. That's when he sees them, walking through the front door - Sam Evans, Quinn Fabray, and Santana Lopez. Excitement flares inside him at the sight of more familiar faces, at the prospect of someone _remembering_ him. But he doesn't jump to his feet and fling himself at them because he thinks he knows what will happen if he does - _nothing_. They'll not know him, and his soul will be crushed that much more. So he sits still, watching out of the corner of his eye as they sit at the table next to his, keeping his head down as he listens in on their conversation.

"Yeah, we got a bunch of cool shit planned for when school starts up again," Sam is telling the girls. "We're gonna grab that wheelchair kid after school and take him up to the top of the bleachers to see if he can get down on his own. And you know Trapped In the Closet Case? The fag? We're gonna pants him. Karofsky's taking one for the team on that. And we're gonna start hiding a bunch of big ice cubes inside the slushies so they fucking _hurt_ when we throw 'em at losers."

"That's hot," Santana comments. The girls laugh wickedly and Finn's stomach drops. He sinks his head lower, stabbing at his pie, mashing it into oblivion.

"Lookit, I gotta piss like a fucking racehorse. Order me a stromboli and a Diet Coke."

Quinn scoffs, disdainful. "A stromboli? Really? All those carbs."

"Whatever, bitch, I'm just gonna puke it up later. Order me a stromboli!" Out of the corner of his eye, Finn sees how Sam bids Quinn goodbye - by grabbing the back of her head and shoving his tongue down her throat. Nasty. "Thanks, babe."

Finn wants his damn check to come so he can just go. His former excitement has turned to sickness. But when Sam's gone, he hears Santana ask Quinn, "So did you do it yet?" and his interest is held, inevitably.

"What, throw myself down the stairs?"

"Yeah. It's, like, the perfect plan."

"How so?"

"Well," Santana muses, "If you throw yourself down the stairs, not only will you get rid of the baby but you might also break your neck. Or your arm. And then _I'll_ be head cheerleader. The perfect plan."

"Screw you, bitch," Quinn snaps. "I'm not doing it. No way."

"Pills then. Coach Sylvester can get you a bunch of those French abortion pills. She's done it for me. Or, even easier, I could just punch you in the belly really hard, like, ten times. That might do it."

_What_? What the _fuck_...

"You'd like that too much." Quinn sighs heavily. "I'm gonna start showing soon. I gotta get rid of this thing! If Sam finds out, he'll _kill_ me."

"Maybe he'll think it's his."

"He's not _retarded_, he can count. He'll figure out I got knocked up before I started screwing him and then he'll know for sure it's Puck's. Stupid Puck. That's why he robbed that liquor store, you know. I told him I was pregnant and he was trying to get money for the doctor and stuff."

"What an idiot. But I think he'll like prison - he can just lift weights all day, right? Oh, by the way, I was totally banging Puck when you were with him," Santana laughs.

"Like I didn't know! Like I cared." Quinn breaks a stale breadstick in two, grinding it into the table top. "Would you really punch me?"

"Anything for you, bitch."

"Fine. Tonight, then. Come over, we'll do it in my bathroom. I'm already craving pickles, like, all the time."

He has to leave. He can't sit here and listen to these horrible people one second longer. He's gonna be ill. The way they're talking about- _What_ they're talking about... Jesus. And Puck in _prison_? He slaps his whole twenty dollars on the table and stands up, jostling the table and spilling coffee as he gets up. He catches the girls looking at him, laughing at him. He starts to walk away, but then stops, turning back to them.

"Excuse me, but since you don't know me and since this is a nightmare or hell, can I just say that you're both really, really awful?" The girls' mouths fall open, their laughter dying. He feels something take him over, fill his mouth with words he'd _never_ say otherwise. "Yeah, I know I cheated on you with Rachel, Quinn, and I'm sorry and all, and maybe I pushed you right into Puck's bed because of it, which is..." He frowns, something slowly dawning on him. "Which is maybe why Rachel did what she did, too, I guess. But...but anyway, you were still awful to me."

He can tell by the look on Quinn's face that she's trying to follow what he's saying. And failing. But he doesn't give her time to question him, continuing, "And you just flat out used me, Santana. And the sex wasn't any good, just as _sex_. But the way you treated me, and especially the way you both treated Rachel? You're _awful_."

Santana's smiling a little, her eyes dark and dangerous. "Do you mean Rachel Berry?"

"Yes, of course I mean Rachel Berry."

Santana laughs, a sharp noise. "She got what she deserved. That freak."

What? He wants to know what she means but suddenly someone's yanking him back, away from the table. "Who the hell are you?" Sam snaps, back from the bathroom.

Finn shoves Sam away and makes his escape, eager to get away from them, muttering, "No one," as he stalks away.

* * *

He steals a hat and gloves from a Rite Aid. If he's in hell, then it doesn't matter if he's a thief, right? And isn't hell supposed to be hot? He's so cold.

He walks all the way to Rachel's house, his whole body shaking from the cold and the nerves. If she doesn't know who he is, the girl who knows him better than anyone, better than he knows himself, the girl who knows how to fill his heart and his soul to brimming, the girl who knows just how to smash both into a million billion sharp, jagged pieces, the prettiest and most wonderful doe on the open range, the only doe he really wants to chase and plant his seed in (so to speak), if she doesn't know who he is... Well, he wouldn't be that surprised, frankly. But he has to know.

She's not there. Of course not. Of course her fathers aren't there. Of course someone else is living there who has no idea what he's talking about. He stares at the house from the sidewalk. That's her window, right up there. That's where her room is, her feminine, bright, warm, comfortable room where he spent so many hours holding her, kissing her, talking to her, touching her. The curtains are pulled tight against the glass now, shutting out his gaze. She's gone. He's lost her. He's numb now. He's numb. But he's desperate. One last desperate move to make. He opens his phone again and dials.

"Finn Hudson. I thought I told you not to call me again," Kurt says over the phone. He knows it's probably pointless but he's _so_ _desperate_ and he has to find his mom. If _anyone_ will know him, it's her, right? He has to try. So he pleads with Kurt, begs the guy to meet him in person so he can just ask him some questions and try to explain. There's a long pause on the phone, and he waits for Kurt's reply. Finally, he sighs and answers, "Fine. Whatever. I'm at the bus station, meet me there."

He doesn't ask Kurt why he's at the bus station, he just thanks him profusely and takes off running.

* * *

He finds Kurt sitting on a bench near the men's bathroom. He doesn't have any luggage with him, so he's still not sure why Kurt's here. "Are you going somewhere?" he asks after awkwardly introducing himself to the wary, scowling boy.

"No. But I'm gonna. I'm gonna get out of this shit hole, and soon. I'll take one of these buses out of here and never come back." Kurt stares at a line of passengers exiting to clamber on a bus idling outside. The bus's sign says it's going to New York. Kurt looks away, eyes him critically. "Now what did you want to ask me? I haven't got all day," he says.

"I'm looking for my mother. Carol Hudson. I know she and your dad know each other, so I thought-"

"I don't think my father knew her," Kurt says shortly.

"No, I'm sure he does."

"Well, if he did, it was a while ago and I never heard of her."

Well hell. He thinks for a second. "Can I just ask him?"

"No. He's dead."

He feels slightly dizzy as all the blood rushes out of his head, Kurt's sharp words cutting through him like hot knives. He grips the edge of the bench, digging his nails into the wood. God, the wood feels so real but this _can't_ be. "Burt is dead?"

"Heart attack six months ago."

It's hard to talk, his mouth gone dry. "Oh god. I'm so sorry, man. I'm sorry."

"Whatever. We weren't very close. I moved in with my grandma after he kicked me out."

"Why did he do that?"

Kurt doesn't answer, either because he doesn't want to or because his attention is elsewhere - he's staring at some middle-aged dude in a sports coat standing by the payphone just down the way. The dude glances their way for a long moment before disappearing inside the men's room.

"Look, maybe he did know your mom, I have no idea. Sorry." Kurt stands up. "I gotta go."

"Wait! Wait. Just one more question. Do you know where Rachel Berry is? Do you know her?"

Kurt looks at him again, whatever's distracting him forgotten for the moment. "Rachel Berry? You knew her?"

"Um, yeah. I-I went to another school but we were friends. I-I sorta lost touch with her. I was hoping to find her again." He remembers the dark cloud that came over Mr. Schuester's face when he mentioned Rachel before, how she was in glee club. The same dark cloud comes over Kurt's face, too. Kurt's not answering. "What? What is it?" He hears Santana's oily voice in his head, saying something about how Rachel got what she deserved, and a heavy stone settles in his guts. Dread courses through him like ice water. He rips the itchy cap off his head and buries his fingers in his hair, yanking at it hard, ready to tear it out from the panic rising in him. "Where is she?" His voice is a whisper he realizes.

Kurt shuffles his feet a little, glancing over his shoulder at the men's room, taking a step back toward it. "I have to go."

He springs up, grabs Kurt's shoulders, knowing the boy is keeping something from him. "Tell me! Please! Please just tell me."

"She's dead, too. She killed herself."

* * *

TBC.


	5. RACHEL

He vomits up his pie and coffee by a parked bus. Hastily wipes his mouth, wipes the tears from his eyes, fruitlessly, and starts running. To _wherever._ It's getting dark now, the short winter day slipping away fast, orange streetlights coming on, and eventually he finds himself in West Lima, the bad side of town. This is where the crack houses and cheap motels are. This is where Rachel sent that Sunshine Corazon girl. This is where he fucked Santana and fucked up everything else in the process.

He keeps running flat out, and with the growing dark, with the tears still raining from his eyes, he doesn't see the patches of ice on the sidewalk. His foot hits one and goes right out from under him. He falls hard, his palms scraping the ground. But he can't stop or he'll just _lose_ it. He pushes himself up and keeps running, whipping around a corner, colliding right into a couple stumbling out of a dive bar, nearly knocking them down. They stagger back, clinging to each other to keep from falling.

"Watch where you're going, you stupid shit!" the woman screams in his face, making the skinny, greasy guy she's with laugh uproariously. "Fucking kids."

It's her.

He can't move.

He can't move.

He stands there like a statue, staring at the woman. Staring at her clinging dress and spilling cleavage and too-high heels, her cheap coat and heavy, garish makeup, her teased, poofy hair. "Mom?" The word nearly chokes him.

"What the hell did you call me?" Carol Hudson screams at him drunkenly. Under all that _trash_, it's _her_.

"Mom, it's me," he says, his voice shaking and ragged and breathless.

"You got a son?" Skinny Greasy asks, sounding disgusted.

"Hell no! You kidding?" she snorts, dismissive, eyeing Finn like he's just escaped a leper colony. "Kid's stoned or something." She yanks on Skinny Greasy's arm, pulling him away, leading him away from Finn without a backward glance. "Come on, hon, let's go to my place. Hey, you ain't married, are you?"

Skinny Greasy's hand grabs her ass, making her howl with laughter as they walk away around the corner, and all Finn can do is stand there, frozen, stunned, speechless. Until his knees finally give way and he collapses to the ground outside the dive bar, surrounded by broken glass and cigarette butts and trash and the blinking red glow of the bar's neon sign.

He's shutting down, he can feel it. He'll just curl up here and wait to die. Can you die again if you're already dead? He doesn't know. He'll just lay here for eternity. Who the fuck cares.

No one.

No one cares - people come and go in and out of the dive, ignoring him, stepping right over his body. When the door opens, music floats out, swirls around him. It barely registers in his head until familiar piano notes cascade out the door and "Don't Stop Believing" starts to play on the jukebox. Finn groans loud and pained, covering his ears with his hands, growling and mewling like a wounded animal to drown out the song. He's not sure how long he's crumpled there on the ground like that, shivering and groaning. Maybe hours. Someone brings him a beer at some point. It sits there on the sidewalk, starting to freeze.

"Kid."

He's eyeing the beer, wondering if there's any point in drinking it, wondering why it's calling him "kid".

"Finn."

The word cuts through his feral haze and he raises his head. And there's Clarence, in his little white mail truck, waiting at the curb. Dumbly, all he can think to say is, "Where am I?"

"Come on, get in the truck."

He crawls across the filthy ground, too weak to stand up. He pulls himself into the van, taking his place on the bucket of mail again. The van is still loaded with mail, none of it delivered. He'd find that odd if he had the energy. Instead he stares at his hands and feels them lurch into gear, start to move. Clarence doesn't say anything for awhile, until, "Do you know what's going on here, Finn? Any guesses?"

"I'm dead. I died. And this is hell," he answers dully.

"No. Ain't that. You were never born."

His head snaps up and he stares at Clarence. "What?"

"You were never born. This is the world without you in it."

"I was never born," he repeats slowly. Shit. He never thought of that. For some reason, he believes the mailman – it does make sense, in a way. Wait, no it doesn't! But...it sorta does. "I was never born."

"That's right. This is what you wanted, though, right? That's what you said. So we provided."

"The postal service did this to me?"

"No, fool!" Clarence barks. "God. The universe. Whatever you want to call it. Oh and by the way, I'm dead. You're not dead, you just weren't born. I, however, am dead."

"Oh." Okay. Clarence is dead. And driving a mail truck. Sure, why not? "So I _did_ kill you with my mom's car."

"Remember what I said before? Trouble with my prostate? The cancer got me. Not your fault, though, don't worry, sonny boy." Clarence reaches over and slaps his knee, trying to be comforting. Yeah, he's so comforted now. He was never born but at least he didn't kill the mailman. "Finn, do you want to see Rachel?"

And now anger flares in him, zapping him suddenly to life. "I _can't_! She's dead! She killed herself! Why would she do that! Why, Clarence? You have all the answers, so tell me why the most perfect, talented, beautiful, smart, loving, forgiving, amazing girl in the whole world would kill herself?"

"Because, Finn."

And suddenly they're outside again, not in the mail truck. Suddenly there's snow falling and they're surrounded by the inky night and the wind howling through the bare trees. He spins around, disoriented, trying to figure out how they got here, where they are. He stumbles over something – a stone. Stones stick up out of the snow. _Headstones_. Graves. A graveyard. He shivers violently. But Clarence is beside him, pointing at the ground. A flat headstone mostly covered by snow. "Here she is," Clarence tells him.

He falls to his knees and shoves the snow off the stone, scooping it away with his huge hands, exposing the words cut into the face of the rock. He reads it out loud, his voice like an echo from far away. "Rachel Barbra Berry. Nineteen Ninety-four, Two Thousand Ten. Beloved daughter." He traces the letters with his shaking fingers, tracing the star chiseled next to her sweet name. No. God, _no. _He tips forward, collapsing onto the stone, pressing his forehead to the cold, dead surface. His hot tears burn his freezing skin. "_Rachel..._"

"She couldn't take it after a while," Clarence tells him. "The bullying. The slushies in the face. The taunts and the shoves and nasty names and the harassment. _Worse_. It just kept getting worse."

"No!" he shouts, banging his fist against her stone. He touches her star again, tenderly. "_No_. She's stronger than that."

"She tried. She did try to keep going, she really did. But eventually they all wore her down. She couldn't escape it. And she didn't have singing in the glee club to make her feel like a star. She didn't have all of you kids to catch her if she fell. She didn't have _you_. She didn't have _you_ to love her and pay attention to her and make her feel special."

His tears are drenching the stone, melting the last dusting of snow on it. His body shakes and heaves with the force of his sobs as he's squeezed from the inside out, wrung out upon this stone, his love's last resting place.

"Life is too short, Finn Hudson, and we can't go it alone."

And before he knows it, he's tripping over headstones and slipping in the snow, running for his life and screaming to the night that he wants to go back. He's got to get back. If he goes back to that tree, to where he crashed the car, maybe he can get back - that's the only thing he can think of in his misery and confusion. _He has to get back he has to get back he has to get back he has to get back to her._

He runs so fast and so far, through a dark wood, brush and branches ripping at his clothes and his skin, and then he can see the road ahead of him, that lonely, snowy road where he died, where he was _unborn_. It's just ahead - he has to get there.

He runs faster still, bursting out of the treeline and onto the road, but he doesn't see the headlights until they're right on top of him, coming right at him. He feels something hot explode in his legs and he's suddenly in the air, flying up up up into the sky like a huge rag doll, feeling boneless and weightless and spinning in space. He glimpses the cloudy pink sky above, the snowflakes hovering all around him, and the snowy road below, the road now quickly coming up to meet him, rushing at him. His body smacks hard onto the ground with a dull thud, knocking the breath from him and spreading fire through all of him, everywhere, followed quickly by a heavy, seeping cold, covering him whole, turning him numb. His eyes are still open and his vision is going black but for a moment, he can still see down the road what hit him, driving away into the night, taillights bouncing like two laughing red eyes.

It's Clarence's white mail truck.

Fucker ran him down.

* * *

TBC.


	6. FINN HUDSON

"I need an ambo unit out on County Road Thirteen, half mile north of Route Nine."

A blast of static, then a tinny voice answers, "Copy that, Burt. ETA twenty minutes."

"Thank you, dispatch."

Shit. He's not dead. He can see a cop's heavy winter boots right by his head. "Where am I?" he croaks.

The cop in the boots kneels down, sticking his face right up close to Finn's. "Hey, can you hear me?" the cop shouts, way too loud. Finn groans and rolls to get away from him. "Answer me if you can hear me. What's your name?"

"Finn. Hudson." He almost adds "I was never born" but refrains. "Where am I?"

"Lima, Ohio, just outside of it."

"No, I mean, _where_ am I? I mean...where." Ugh, how can he explain?

He pushes himself up, his hand touching something squishy as he does. Brown goo with chunks in it. Nasty. He wipes his palm off in the snow and sits up, the cop helping but protesting, telling him he should stay down until the ambulance comes. But he feels okay and ignores the other guy. For having been run over by a mail truck, he's in pretty good condition.

Wait a second. What _is_ that brown goo?

He sniffs his hand.

Holy crap.

"Hazelnuts," he murmurs.

Holy.

Crap.

"Hazelnuts!" he shouts right at the cop. _That's his vomit in the snow_! A liter of Frangelico and a half-eaten Christmas dinner vomit! That's _awesome_!

He twists around, his eyes popping out and a shout escaping his mouth when he sees a his totaled car a few feet away, the front end squashed against the tree, the door open and the airbag hanging limply out of the steering wheel! "OhJesusgodthankyou_yes_!" he shouts as he jumps to his feet, feeling like he just won the lottery.

"Son, son, calm down. You've been in a car accident-"

"I know! Isn't it wonderful!" he screams.

"You may have hit your head, your mouth's bleeding."

He touches his face, sticking his tongue out frantically and tasting blood. He starts jumping up and down, jubilation flooding his system. "My mouth's bleeding! Puck punched me in the mouth and my mouth's bleeding!" He sways a little on his feet, rocked by the realizations bombarding his tiny brain. The cop tries to get him to sit down again but he doesn't, knocking his hands away. "Is it still Christmas night?" he asks frantically.

"Yes, but you need to _calm down_. You're in shock."

"It's still Christmas, yay! Oh wait, wait, wait!" He digs into his pocket and finds his wallet. And almost faints from relief when he sees his ID, his debit card, cash - all twenty-three dollars of it! - and his condom! "My condom! My condom! Look, it's my condom! I'm me! I'm Finn Hudson! Where's my phone? I need my phone." He shoves his hand into his other pocket and pulls it out, hastily turning it on, his hands shaking, but he's not even remotely cold. The phone lights up and he laughs like a madman, the sound echoing over the road when he sees ten new voicemails and fifteen texts! And an address book jammed with names and numbers.

But there's only one person he wants to call right now.

He speed-dials and dances about impatiently while it rings. And rings. And rings. "Come on, please pick up," he whispers.

"Hello? Finn?" Rachel's frantic voice suddenly fills his ear.

"Rachel! Rachel!" He's immediately sobbing, gulping, hardly able to speak. "Oh thank god, Rachel..."

"Finn, where are you? Puck called everyone, we're all out looking for-"

Suddenly she goes quiet. "Rachel? Can you hear me? Babe?" He checks the phone's screen. Call ended, no bars. _Arrrgggh_!

But she's alive.

She's alive.

And she knows him.

He's _home_.

* * *

He convinces the cop (his name is Burt, too, just like his step-dad, that's so cool!) to drive him back to town, rather than wait for the ambulance, which he so doesn't need. Burt the cop is taking him home - to Bedford Avenue. He wants to go to Rachel's house but Burt the cop won't hear it. Fine, whatever, he'll ride his old bike to Rachel's in the middle of a blizzard during a tornado and a nuclear terrorist attack if he has to, if that's what it takes to get back to her tonight.

When they turn down Main Street, Finn squishes his face to his window, looking frantically for something in particular. It should be riiiiiiight... There! Martini's coffee house! Not Starbuck's! He laughs and rolls down the window, leaning half out and screaming at the top of his lungs, "Merry Christmas, coffee house!" as they drive past. People stare. So what!

They're almost to the turn off for Bedford when he sees Breadstix on the other side of the street and, oh, it's never looked so beautiful, that good old Breadstix, home of the unlimited breadsticks, as many as a person can choke down. He's so happy he could cry. "Merry Christmas, Breadstix!" he screams out the window.

And cry he does, like a giant stupid baby, when he runs through the front door of his childhood home and straight into the arms of his mother, _his_ mother with her sensible hair-cut and sensible shoes and sensible make-up and those jeans Kurt picked out for her and a sensible red sweater set. "_Mom_. It's me," he sobs.

They're both crying on each other and she's trying to tell him what's happened since he drove off from Puck's, how Puck called them all _and_ the cops, put them all on the look-out for crazy drunken Finn, and she's yelling at him and hitting his chest with her fist, furious at him for getting drunk and driving, telling him he's grounded for a month, and she's telling him she loves him, and he's telling her he loves her too, telling her he's so sorry, telling her he needs to see Rachel.

But before he knows it, the house is jammed with people - Mercedes and Tina and Artie and Mike Chang, followed swiftly by Puck and Mrs. Puckerman, Puck swearing a promise to God and to Finn that he'll never make out with Rachel again. "No you won't. Or I'll break your face. Oh, and I'm glad you're not in prison, Puckerman," Finn tells him.

"Thanks, man. I think."

Sam and Quinn are there and it's weird to see them, memories of the _other_ Sam and Quinn still fresh in his head. But now Sam is Sam, back to his nice-guy self, and Quinn's not pregnant. Finn knows this because he asks her, point blank. And it's _really_ awkward. But he has to be sure.

Santana shows up with Brittany and they both hug him, Brittany telling him she's glad he's not dead because the team would miss his dancing abilities. He's glad not to be dead, too, and immediately switches topics, telling them, a pointy finger right in Santana's face, telling _all_ of them, all his New Directions teammates gathered there in his living room, that if they _ever_ say one bad word about Rachel _to_ Rachel or to _him_, or to anyone, he will kick them off the team so fast and so hard their asses will be bruised for a fucking _month_. "Finn!" his mother gasps, surprised at his language.

"I'm serious." He glares at his teammates, taking in their shocked, abashed faces. "Enough is enough." They all nod, and he nods, pleased, feeling like a leader again. Pleased to be protecting his woman. And then the door is opening and Mr. Schuester is hustling through, laughing and confused when Finn asks him right off the bat to verify he's still a teacher and definitely not an accountant.

He _still _wants to call Rachel, but before his phone is out of his pocket, Burt and Kurt burst through the door and he tackles them both, relieved as hell, and they hug him tight, drawing mom into the hug, too. "I don't want us to be apart anymore," he tells them. "I want us all to live together. As soon as possible. Can we do that?"

"We'll start house-hunting again in the morning, son," Burt tells him, clapping him on the back. Kurt's crying now too, dabbing his tears with his DKNY scarf, he and mom sniffling and smiling wobbily at him. He leans over and kisses Kurt firmly on the head and ruffling his hair briskly, silently thanking heaven for bringing them all together tonight.

He's just missing one piece of the puzzle.

He finally slips outside with his phone while New Directions turns on the stereo, putting on Christmas music to sing along with, and while mom and Mrs. Puckerman start putting together some snacks for this impromptu party. He shuts the door behind him and flips open his phone. Full bars now. He calls her and as soon as it starts ringing in his ear, he hears the soft sound of "Faithfully" floating over the snowy yard from somewhere in the darkness. He holds his phone away, stepping off the porch, listening a moment, marveling, then calling out her name.

And there she is. Hurrying down the sidewalk toward his house. She's a vision, a soothing sight for his weary eyes, in her bright red coat and her white hat, her phone and her keys clutched in her mitten hand, her dark hair bouncing on her shoulders. "Rachel," he whispers, her name a prayer.

She slows a little, her smile a little shy, hesitant, nervous. "Finn. We were so worried about you. Are you okay, are you hurt?"

This is not happening fast enough - he _needs her now _so he runs, closing the distance, and she's almost in his grasp when she slips on some ice, skidding, about to fall, but he's there in time and catches her, grabbing her into his arms so tight, clutching her to him, and he's crying again, he just can't _stop_, what a baby he is! But the relief is endless and he knows she doesn't understand just how _much_ he's relieved or _why_, why he's so endlessly happy to be holding her again.

"Are you real, Rachel?" he whispers in her ear, pulling off her hat and burying his hands in her messy hair. He kisses her temple, her cheek, her mouth, her eyes, and keeps asking that - "Are you real, are you real?"

Her eyes are wide and blinking fast, her confusion and surprise at his onslaught very apparent, and he _knows_ she doesn't understand where his sudden and massive change of heart came from; he _knows_ she doesn't understand why he's now begging her forgiveness. But when he touches her face and looks deep into her dark eyes, grinning tenderly at the face he thought he'd never see again, kissing tenderly the lips he never thought he'd kiss again, telling her, "I know I'm not perfect and I'll say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing too often, cuz I'm still just _me_, but please please _please_ always know that I love you. Only you. And that won't change for anything so don't forget it! You're _it_ for me, you know?" and she stares up at him with soft eyes and the biggest, brightest smile he's ever seen, he thinks she's got his point.

* * *

He makes her sing the song she wanted to sing in the auditorium, as her gift to him. Before he walked away from her. She seems a little reluctant, her eyes darting around his living room at all their teammates watching them, mumbling something about letting everyone else sing. But he takes her hand in his and says quietly, "Don't worry about them. Just sing for me?"

She smiles and gives him a vigorous nod. "Okay."

He sits on the edge of the coffee table, waiting eagerly while she finds the track on the Christmas album in the CD player. Everyone in the room gets quiet but he hardly notices there _is_ anyone else, his focus squarely on the girl right in front of him as she takes a deep breath and starts to sing.

"Greeting cards have all been sent, the Christmas rush is through. But I still have one wish to make, a special one for you."

As always, her voice wraps around him like a warm, soft sweater and fills his body with the same warmth; it's soft and soothing like that first sip he took of Frangelico, not that long ago but _so fucking long ago_, when it was his best friend, his only friend on this night. But he knows _she_ is his true best friend. He knows he can drink in her voice forever and _never_ get enough.

"Merry Christmas, darling. We're apart that's true, but I can dream and in my dreams, I'm Christmas-ing with you..."

He's not sure if he dreamed that other place, that world without him in it. It must've been a dream, it just felt so..._real_. He can't shake that feeling, no matter what. But it's over. He woke up. He woke the fuck up.

He reaches out to her, taking her hands again and pulling her closer, right up close to him, hugging her around the legs, resting his head against her breast as she continues her song. This is real. She is real. Her hands stroking his hair, that's real. The breath in her body is real, too. Her smell, her Rachel smell - no air freshener pine-scent - that's real.

He lifts his head off her chest and looks up her body, up to her face, watching as she sings, watching her shine like the star she was born to be. When Santa or God or the universe or whoever was passing out dreams on the day he was born, he must've been dreaming of her, his shining star.

* * *

THE END.


	7. EPILOGUE

They have dinner reservations at Breadstix later and then the glee club New Year's Eve party at Mercedes' house, and maybe...maybe something _more_ after that, something really really _special_, if she can safely sneak him into her bedroom later without alerting her fathers.

He's still got that condom in his wallet and he thinks they might be ready to use it.

But right now they're on their way to the cemetery. Real festive.

Rachel clutches a handful of white daisies on her lap and gives him a brave smile. He forces one back but the truth is he's kind of freaking out right now. This is the same cemetery where Rachel, that _other_ Rachel, was buried. He can't shake that memory, much as he'd like to.

He told her about it, that _other_ place, told her everything he dreamed about – or lived through. He thought she'd call him totally fucking nuts and laugh at him. But she didn't. She cried. She cried because she was sad for him, sad that he was so scared and alone there. Sometimes he dreams about it – her grave - and then he has to call her when he wakes up to make sure she's still alive, to make sure he's still in the right place. And now, she reaches out and rests her hand on his leg, reminding him again that she's here, right here.

Their first visit at the cemetery is to a spot he knows well - his father's grave. He kneels down in the snow and clears off his headstone, running his fingers over the name - Christopher Hudson. Rachel kneels down beside him, getting the knees of her tights wet, but she doesn't seem to mind. She places half of the white daisies on the stone and then takes his hand.

"Dad? This is Rachel. Rachel Berry. I thought you two should finally get to meet."

"Hi, Mr. Hudson," she says, clutching his hand tighter, her eyes leaking tears but her smile warm for the cold grave. "I'm in love with your son. He's a remarkable person and I know you'd be very proud of him."

Their second visit requires a map, hand-drawn and approximate, and a fair bit of searching. By the time they find it and clear all the snow off, the sky is a sea of red, orange, pink and purple, the sun setting over the woods to the west. And it's so quiet, he can hear the bells tolling in the bell tower at St. Monica's church, all the way across town. The sky and the bells cast a peaceful spell over this lonely place and it doesn't seem so scary, not with Rachel's hand gripping his, but at the same time it doesn't feel like that _other_ place is very far away right now. If he glances over his shoulder, will he see a little white mail truck idling nearby? He thinks that _other_ place will never really leave him.

Rachel places the rest of the white daisies on the stone and they stand there quietly, looking at the grave, listening to the bells.

"Rachel, this is Clarence."

* * *

**THE END. **

* * *

**Thanks for reading & commenting. Check out It's A Wonderful Life, if you've not seen it. **


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